


Touchy

by Solar_Sylvilagus



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Also this is basically me taking my brain out and like, Don't worry tho, Gen, I just like writing these two as awkward buddies, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Maxwell's probably some flavor of neurodivergent because i need to vent, also Charlie makes a Very Brief appearance, but not enough to tag and like, get anyone's hopes up, her time will come, internalized ableism, shaking out the bad feelings, soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 18:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17493227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solar_Sylvilagus/pseuds/Solar_Sylvilagus
Summary: Maxwell's not a big fan of the touchy-feely stuff.





	Touchy

**Author's Note:**

> This is me venting about autism stuff so, keep that in mind. Touch aversion is basically what this all centers around. There's some mentions of sorta self-harm/self-destructive behaviors, and some childhood memories of being forced to hug and such so if that's a thing for ya maybe give this a miss?

It was something that’d always been there. A quirk. An oddity. Something that didn’t quite click inside his mind. Something that made his skin crawl with displeasure and his ears ring and made him want to drive his fist through a wall. Which he had done as a much younger man, and promptly regretted it both due to his parent’s scolding and the pain he’d felt.

And if that had something to do with how he’d chosen his targets, well he’d just keep that to himself.

* * *

 

As much as he was loathe to admit it, he saw something of himself in the ridiculous haired scientist. Bright-eyed ambition and unrecognized talent, yes. But something more. The awkward stutter, the way he avoided town like the plague. Overly formal, relying on rules set forth by others before him than let his social ineptitude drive him into dangerous waters.

Words hadn’t always come easy to magician. But that was Before. When he wore thick rimmed glasses and spoke softly and stiltedly, ashamed of his accent. And even more Before, when he had fewer words and much more anger.

* * *

 

Touch was always difficult for him. When his grandmother would sweep him into a hug, he’d never known what to do with his arm, and was always scolded for being statue still in her arms. And he’d outright rejected her attempts to kiss him on the cheek, thrashing away from the too close contact. It had been laughed off as childish aversion and was usually let go after some chiding for hurting his grandmother’s feelings.

Sometimes his own was enough to grate. There are foggy memories of his mother picking him up under his armpit and forcibly washing his hands after he’d refused to do so. Being so young, there were no words to describe the Wrongness that the touch of even his own skin brought. Instead he’d just sobbed as she held his hands under the too hot water and scrubbed.

* * *

 

The gloves had been part of the magician attire, or so he’d told himself. Really it was so he wouldn’t have to touch people’s actual hands for handshakes. Americans were so obsessed with handshakes. It was frankly ridiculous. But the accent marked him as an outsider enough, no need to be dragging skeletons out of the proverbial closet.

But then he’d met Charlie. And she liked hugs and kisses and all those touchy-feely things. And while Maxwell had touchy-feely feelings for her of a debatably platonic nature, it still made his skin crawl. But she’s smile at him after a show and his heart would melt and he’d grit his teeth and tough it out. Anything for his rose.

Until it was too much. And he really would have done anything for her. Anything for his rose. Anything but that.

She’s leaned in to kiss him, and he’d made a hasty exit, babbling excuses and trying not to look into her hurt eyes.

And later that night, in his apartment, Maxwell had paced the floor and smoked until the neighbors complained of the smoke leaking from under his door. But by then the urge to punch through the wall or boil his skin with way too hot water or something else he’d regret later had passed. Instead he’d laid down and cried quietly into his pillow.

* * *

 

Eons later, in a much rougher world with much rougher people, Maxwell sat on a roughly hewn bench by the fire and ruminated. Until that ridiculous haired scientist he’d seen so much of himself in put a hand on his shoulder and nearly startled him into the fire. Wilson had recoiled almost as violently, staring with worried eyes as Maxwell reassured himself. It wasn’t skin, it wasn’t skin, just gloved palm on clothed shoulder. No contact. It was fine. He should’ve been able to handle that.

The worst part was when Wilson spoke.

“Sorry. I didn’t actually mean to startle you, you know.” And while his heart was no longer pounding Maxwell was still reluctant to resume his seat with his skin still crawling unpleasantly. Silence lasted only a few beats before nervous rambling interrupted it. “It’s just, well, you usually don’t just zone out like that? I mean, you do sometimes but usually you’re staring at your book so it can be easily misread as reading even though you don’t move a single page for an hour. Not that I’ve been watching you! It’s just a thing I noticed, and I guess I got kind of worried when you didn’t do that? And you usually don’t startle easily so—”

“I don’t like being touched.” One hand held the other to keep himself from scratching at his shoulder. Even though peeling a layer of skin off felt like it would help, he knew from experience it wouldn’t. Because one layer would become another and another until there was blood under his nails.

“Oh. I won’t do it again then.”

It took Maxwell a few more moments to resume his seat on the bench, a respectful distance between him and Wilson as the other wrote in his journal by the firelight.


End file.
